


The Resistance Cure for Insomnia

by aslipperysloth



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Bunkmates, Canon Character of Color, F/M, Fantasizing, First Time, Humor, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Stupid Sexy Dameron, Threesome - F/M/Other, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 09:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5623207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aslipperysloth/pseuds/aslipperysloth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being an ex-stormtrooper and knowing next to nothing about sex doesn't stop Finn from thinking about it. </p><p>A lot.</p><p>Even if he's not supposed to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Resistance Cure for Insomnia

**Author's Note:**

> Quick and silly little thing for the kink meme prompt, 'Finn/Everyone, masturbation, everyone is so HOT', which asked for Finn finally letting himself have feelings and desires for the first time.
> 
> Extreme virgins with erratic thoughts ahead, please be warned. There is also a very brief mention of harsh consequences for homosexuality in the First Order. Other than that, it's cracky and unbetaed as usual, but hopefully it will be a bit of fun. Hopefully. :3

**

Finn cannot sleep. 

He has been fiddling around for hours, bunching and releasing the sheets and rubbing his neck against the itchy nerf-wool blanket. It’s hot on D’Qar, getting hotter as summer approaches, and it’s getting under his skin. The temperature aboard the _Finalizer_ had been carefully regulated for humans almost exclusively, but here on the resistance base it seems like all species have to adapt their surroundings to suit themselves. Finn has already discarded two blankets by folding them up at the bottom of his bed. 

Unfortunately, even that simple decision seemed difficult. He’d spent years being told when to sleep, when to eat, when to exercise, when to study. If the Order asked you to run, you could only ask, “How fast?” If they asked you to clean, you were supposed to ask, “How many toilets?” If they asked you to kill people, well…

everyone knows how that story ended for FN-2187.

And now because of this Finn has responsibilities of his own. One of them apparently includes adjusting blankets and falling asleep entirely unassisted. Sometimes he wishes someone would just command him to sleep; he wants to beg for it when he hears noises in the hallway, or soft conversations in neighbouring rooms long after Finn has put body to mattress. This is impossible, however, as resistance members are practically free to sleep whenever they want to, as long as they fulfill their duties. Finn even gets to turn off his own little light at the end of the bed when he’s ready. 

Nobody monitors his wake time either. In fact, he’s even been allowed to sleep in more than once. On those days, he often wakes to a gentle shake, still-tired but warm eyes, and a “Hey, buddy! Want to learn how to fix a repulsor engine?” Furthermore, Poe doesn’t even come for him until long after the sun rises and the faint lines of the planet’s rings become visible through the fog of the changing atmosphere. The degree of leniency is unbelievable. 

Poe Dameron is currently sleeping on the other bed in the room, separated from Finn by a marginal amount of floor space – space that is being filled with a couple of hastily-discarded orange flight suits and various other articles of clothing, all spilling out from the tiny gap under Poe’s bed. When Poe first offered Finn the spare bed in his room, he had apologized for the “total mess, man,” but it has been a few weeks now and his friend still has not tidied up. Finn, on the other hand, keeps his few possessions folded perfectly in military style, in neat little stacks on his shelf. He sometimes wonders if it would be wrong to do Poe’s washing for him, laundry duty being a very familiar task, but he gets the feeling Poe wouldn’t like it. Not because Finn would be touching his things, but because he would rather Finn not bother doing extra work. It’s strange, but in the end Finn supposes that the mess is a good reminder that he’s no longer in the regimented life of his past. Plus, in the event of a nightmare, it’s actually comforting to stare down at the haphazard piles. 

Poe had come into the room an hour or so ago. At the time, Finn was busy pretending to be asleep. While he knew Poe would have no problem talking to him or telling him long and detailed stories about dramatic adventures until he became suitably tired, Finn didn’t want to be a bother. Poe, too, clearly also tried his best not to bother Finn. The man was exceptionally quiet getting ready for bed. The only things Finn heard were a shuffling of more clothing hitting the floor, something being taken out of the footlocker at the base of the bed, a tiny comm display bouncing off of the shelf (Finn knows the sound – it happens at least once or twice a night), the resulting whispered curse, the creak of metal from Poe’s bodyweight, and finally a weary yawn. 

Almost instantly Poe was asleep, leaving Finn very envious indeed. For a long time he tried to focus on the rhythm of his friend’s heavy breaths, which bordered on being outright snores. Sadly, it didn’t help.

Now Finn is back to fidgeting. He rubs his toes back and forth against the sheets, unintentionally pulling them out of their careful tuck. He places an arm under his pillow to turn onto his stomach. He squirms back carefully onto his sensitive back and faces the metal roof. He turns right. Then left. Then right again. 

Facing the wall, Finn lets his eyes open. Even in the greyscale darkness of the windowless room, he can see the bottom of his favourite jacket, Poe’s jacket, which he keeps respectfully hung up on a tiny hook when not in use. In a fit of inspiration, he grasps at it to pull it down, then places it over his head. It doesn’t provide much extra darkness, unfortunately, as the large hole in the back courtesy of Kylo Ren hasn’t been mended. But it still smells faintly of Poe after all this time, which he thinks might have a calming effect. It has an interesting smell – like the ground and the sky at the same time. There’s an overpowering scent of oiled metal mixed with burnt leather, and under that a musky, salty sweat that some sort of synthetic spiced soap is trying its hardest to disguise. It smells like someone who has been living a fulfilling life of their own. 

A little dejected, Finn pushes the jacket aside again, this time beside his pillow. Everything outside of the First Order is so overwhelming, even this snarking jacket. What he wouldn’t give for the simple, sterile smell of his old stormtrooper helmet. _That_ would be comforting, although he knows better than to admit that out loud here. He wonders if the thought makes him a bad person.

Remembering the First Order makes Finn’s mind drift sometimes to his old teammates, like his comrade FN-2003. It was always a surprise to see Slip take off his helmet and physically be so different to Finn – pale skin, hazel eyes, a kind face. Slip hadn’t been the brightest soldier, but he was genuine, and in a way he had been teaching Finn humanity long before he discovered it on his own. Finn misses him. He misses the others too. He recalls Zeroes’ russet brown skin, only slightly lighter than Finn’s own, and what his chin looked like with stray drops of cream on it as they ate in the mess hall –

‘ _Whoa,_ ’ he hears Solo’s voice suddenly like a haunting ghost in his head, ‘ _take it down a notch._ ’ The familiar feeling of tightness starts to grow between his legs and his stomach sinks. 

Finn takes a deep breath. This is _not_ approved. The psytechs would have had a thing or two to say about these sorts of thoughts in his previous life. 

‘Go away,’ he wants to say to his body, curling his legs up closer to his chest. ‘Nobody is wanting to reproduce right now.’

Finn sighs again. He wonders what kinds of things people in the resistance think about when they need to sleep. Maybe they take some sort of sleeping drug? Surely someone would have told him about it. 

New friends, he decides. That’s a safe topic. He’s met so many good people lately. Nien, for example. Nien is a good pal, if a little strange to look at. Snap too. Snap shares meals with him when Poe is called off-world. No one who looked like Temmin Wexley would be tolerated in the First Order. Meals and muscle mass and even the slightest weight change were constantly monitored there. Finn imagines those with the propensity towards Snap’s body type had been weeded out of the ranks long ago. Therefore, Snap is a fascinating sight. The pilot is a very wide person, reminding Finn somewhat of an instant mealbread, and Finn wants to touch him sometimes, just out of curiosity, to see how it would feel. Temmin wouldn’t feel wrinkled and slimy like a Hutt, but he’d be soft, comforting, warm. Easy to curl into. 

Finn wouldn’t mind touching Chewbacca either, as Chewie had been been the first Wookiee Finn had ever seen outside of a simulation. In his mind, he can almost visualize Chewbacca standing proudly in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon. Han Solo is there too; only this time the famous smuggler has been lifted up onto the controls. The hairy Wookiee steps between Solo’s bare legs (‘Wait, why is he half-naked suddenly?’), the fur tickling the inside of his pale thighs. Solo runs his fingers down Chewbacca’s hair, smoothing it down, pushing it upward, softly scratching the skin underneath. Meanwhile, Chewbacca coos and trills encouragement and affection in Shyriiwook. When Solo smiles in response to whatever is said, his grey hair drops forward to frame blue eyes that are creasing in happiness. Tossing aside his blaster from its harness and rushing to remove his jacket, Solo eagerly presses his body further into the Wookiee’s. Then Solo’s hands move back into the fur and begin to move downward and…

and…

…and that’s where the fantasy stops, because Wookiee anatomy is completely alien to Finn. He knows what other human men look like, at least, thanks to living in the First Order. Other species, not so much. Even human _women_ , not so much. After all, it’s not like Captain Phasma regularly took off her armour for them all to get a good look. 

‘Oh no.’ Finn’s eyes abruptly widen as if the force itself is going to smite him for his sudden turn of thoughts. ‘Don’t think about Captain Phasma. Do not. In fact, don’t think at all. Certainly don’t think about how you would come up just perfectly to the level of her ample chest, or how easy it would be for her to back you into a wall, or climb on top of you and hold you down, and-’ 

“Stop it,” Finn mumbles to himself harshly, flopping over onto his opposite side. Wookiees and dead heroes and Captain Phasma? What in the mradhe muck is wrong with him? He opens his eyes and stares ahead, hoping his thoughts will turn as dull and colourless as the walls. Clenching his thighs together, Finn wills the growing hardness between his legs to recede, as it has done plenty of times before. 

…

Or he could…touch it. Get it over with. 

Nope. _No_. 

Instead he runs his right hand over his own tightly-coiled hair.

But it’s not as if anyone would find out if he did though, right? As long as he kept it quick and quiet. Finn had never really indulged much in touching himself. Just a few times, perfunctorily, and he certainly had never thought about other people while doing it. 

So maybe he shouldn’t do it. Maybe it’s as taboo here on the base as it is on the star destroyer. He doesn't know.

For the entirety of his time away from the First Order, Finn has been trying to build a framework, based mostly on observations and assumptions, of what is acceptable and unacceptable among normal people and around the base. Just days ago Finn had seen Jessika Pava playing a holovid beside her as she worked in the hangar. From what he could tell the vid was some sort of love story. There was music, even, coming from tiny speakers in saccharine alien tones. This also ended up being the first time Finn had ever seen two people kiss, the characters projected in blue embracing passionately. The sight had actually stopped Finn in his tracks, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. Jessika had caught him staring, he’s sure of it, because she smiled at him through the moving figures, and waved with wrench still in hand, beckoning him over. Finn’s eyes, regrettably, had by this time moved straight to her lips, which were dried by the wind but still looked pink and inviting. Then Finn had tensed up with a drawn breath, hastily closed his mouth, and bolted to his (sorry, _Poe’s_ ) room immediately without responding. Finn hopes she doesn’t hold that against him too much. Not that he would complain if she were held against him…

Anyway, his new assumption is, therefore, that it is okay to think about kissing. But beyond that, he’s clueless.

Finn clenches the sheet into his fist. Maybe it would be better to imagine someone who embodies self-discipline and restraint, two things he desperately needs right now. General Organa, for instance. The same General Organa who had accepted Finn with open arms and who chose his friend Poe Dameron from the crop of soldiers to be her eyes in the sky. 

“You’re one of my most trusted and treasured pilots, Poe,” she uses Poe’s first name not his last, naturally, “and I’m so very impressed with your distinguished service. But I find myself in need of your expert skills once again.” This is what the General says in Finn’s mind as she unpins her braid and lets the thick hair gently fall in loose waves down to where Poe is busy undoing her pants and burying his face between her legs. Her head falls back in pleasure, threading Poe’s thick hair between her fingers and tugging him closer to her body as Poe’s tongue begins to work magic. Finn might not be familiar with exactly what is between her legs, but he knows it must be _good_. 

Now both of them are suddenly naked, Finn’s mind filling in the missing anatomical pieces as best it can. The control room becomes the background of the scene, and Jessika Pava for some reason returns to join the tableau of bodies. She plants a series of kisses on Organa’s neck, hand tangling into her commander’s beautiful grey-toned hair. Here in Finn’s mind, General Organa looks happy, instead of mournful and preoccupied like in real life. Jessika then places a teasing finger on Dameron’s muscular back, running it down the grooves of his spine – 

Finn whimpers. 

This can’t be normal, can it? There’s something wrong with Finn’s brain. Maybe it’s the same thing that made him a terrible stormtrooper. He’s just messed up. The First Order had taught him basic reproduction and sex, and why never to do it, ever, unless it was a direct order and performed under strict supervision. Sex is the method by which two opposite sex human beings of reproductive age produce offspring. It’s not…whatever this is in his head. This is insane. 

And yet he’s harder than ever. Burying his face in the pillow, enough that he can just barely see Poe with the one eye, and groaning, he presses his hand to the tent he’s made in the blanket. This is meant to be a gentle attempt at encouraging the hardness to go back down; regrettably, the pressure just ends up feeling really, really good.

Across from him, Poe is still fast asleep on his back. The sheets have been pushed down, leaving the view of an exposed chest with an attractive downward trail of hair on the lower abdomen. One of the pilot’s strong arms, also generously peppered with dark hair, is dangling over the side of the bed and touching the clothes heap. The other arm is above his head. Finn knows Poe probably has some sort of covering on the bottom half of his body below the covers, but Finn has never seen what his friend sleeps in before, nor seen him without clothes entirely. 

Secretly he wants to. 

Almost instantly Kylo Ren invades his mind, the black figure standing in front of a captive Poe Dameron, who is restrained in one of the interrogation chairs on the _Finalizer_. Poe’s face is bloody and bruised, just like how it was when Finn had first met him. A displeased General Hux is there too, menacingly stroking a hand down one of Poe’s hairy arms as he stands beside his prisoner. Glaring up at the both of them, wounded but cheerfully defiant, Poe mutters some kind of cheeky phrase to the fearsome commander. Kylo Ren slaps him for it. (Real life Finn twitches and actually tastes his own lips – copying exactly what imaginary Poe does as he licks the fresh blood away from the corners.) Hux then squeezes Poe’s cheeks in his gloved hand, forcing Poe to stare at Kylo Ren, who is now lost in one of his usual fits of rage and tearing at the rest of Poe’s clothes – _no, ugh, gross_. 

That thought takes it down a notch. 

Why is he thinking these things? He wouldn’t ever want anything to happen to Poe. Poe embodies charisma and kindness and possesses an endless charm that can pull anyone into his orbit. Even C-3PO seems excited to be in Poe’s presence sometimes, and that’s saying a lot. Finn is willing to bet that all of the droids, including BB-8, always have all sorts of fun, helpful attachments ready for their favourite pilot. 

Not _those_ kinds of attachments. 

Finn takes a deep breath. ‘Focus.’ The Poe in his vision manages to free a leg and kick General Hux right in the delicates. ‘That’s better,’ Finn thinks, letting out a soft chuckle. 

Blankets shift on the other side of the room, and he is wrenched suddenly from his thoughts. Everything is deathly quiet as Finn stops moving completely. Not swallowing, not even breathing. Thankfully, Poe simply huffs and resumes snoring again.

Maybe Poe is not the best person to think about. Perhaps Finn’s mind creates disturbances in the force that alert his friend to his inappropriate thoughts; who knows how the force works? 

Maybe Rey is a better choice. Rey is his best friend, and she is still on her mission to find Luke Skywalker. Across the galaxy is theoretically a safe distance from Finn’s unclean mind, right? 

So he thinks of Rey – Rey and her beautiful smile and her sparkling eyes that looked at Finn like he mattered, full of hope. Rey, who had stayed by his side during his convalescence, right up until the moment she had to leave, or so he’s heard. Rey, the first person to ever hold him close. He misses her so much.

He imagines her gazing at him, her eyes squinting a little as the wind blows loudly against a little tent they’ve found on Jakku. 

No, cancel that, no wind. The sand would get everywhere. 

A calm evening instead, miles away from anyone. Rey takes out a canteen, and as she swallows, stray water droplets fall down her neck to dampen the edges of her beige outfit. Finn swallows and Rey laughs at his nervousness, leaning closer, the stray wisps of hair that frame her face tickling his cheek. (“Always my hero, Finn. I’m so proud of you.” “Really?” “Yes, so why are you worried?”) Gathering his courage, Finn begins to follow the trail of water with his touch, easing the sashes that cover her chest down over her shoulders. Through the tunic he can feel the heat of her body as his fingers skim over the tempting curves. Rey pushes the coverings on her arms off one by one and tosses them to the ground beside them, before unclipping her belt and removing her tunic completely. She laughs as it gets stuck over her head and Finn’s hands tremble as he tries to help. Under the tunic (‘Would there be anything under the tunic?’ he wonders) the hot expanse of bare skin gleams, lightly tanned, against his darker fingers. Then, taking pity on him, she guides his clumsy hand down, down until he can feel, well, whatever is down there. Rey would show him how to move his hand. She would show him what to do. 

Back in the room, Finn puts his own hand in his mouth, stifling a whine. Reproduction has always seemed so clinical to him – insert part A into part B. But it _must_ feel good, or nobody would bother, right?

Considering that, perhaps he could slide his fingers inside her, and she would moan into his mouth as they kissed like the passionate couple in Jessika’s holovid. Finn even wonders if he could put his mouth elsewhere, lick down her collarbone and over her lovely chest and down even further. He wonders what she would taste like, if she’d have soft, curly hair down there like Finn does. 

(“Oh, Finn,” he can almost hear her musical voice. Not FN-2187. “ _Finn_.”)

That’s it. He can’t take it anymore. Swallowing a frustrated whine, the Finn in his own bed finally gives in and shoves his hand beneath the blanket and into the grey pants they’d let him keep from medical, the ones he always sleeps in. He nearly moans aloud at the blissful feeling of contact. His hand trembles where it surrounds him in a tight fist, moving up and down. 

It. Feels. Amazing.

But he still has to be quiet for Poe, he swiftly remembers. 

Poe. Oh _kriff_ , Poe. Handsome Poe Dameron. He can’t help it; he can’t help Poe’s visage invading his head again, because he’s _right there_ in the other bunk. Dashing Poe, always climbing out of Black One with the wind rustling his dark, thick waves of hair, skin gleaming with excited sweat. 

He imagines Poe’s hands on him, touching him as expertly as they do the stick controls of the X-Wing. He thinks of the way Poe caresses BB-8’s body lovingly as the droid beeps and boops at him. He thinks of Poe running his fingers over the damaged hull of his ship, reverent and careful, and then touching Finn’s still painful scars in the same manner. Finn wants Poe’s hands on his back most of all. No, not most of all, not quite, because _oh man_ those calloused, deft hands would feel fantastic if they were here in place of Finn’s hands right now. 

The thought brings a guttural sound from Finn’s throat. Hastily, he turns onto his back again, replacing the hand in his mouth with the sleeve of the leather jacket. He can’t look at Poe in person. It’s too much. 

The room is so hot now that he has to toss the top blanket halfway off. He writhes on his bed, sweating, thighs tensing. He is _burning_. 

The Poe Dameron in his mind’s eye has just gained a narrative; he has rescued Finn from a difficult life of servitude, brought Finn to a place where he is finally allowed to do the right thing. High on adrenaline in this very room, Poe’s breath comes fast and hot on Finn’s neck as the warmth of his body envelops Finn’s back, his arms winding around Finn like Twi-lek headtails, filling Finn’s nose with the scent of fuel and metal. Stubble scratches into the side of Finn’s neck, teeth too, before wet lips move to soothe the area. (“I don’t mind if you haven’t done this before. I got you, pal. Just let me make you feel good.” “What? No, I’ve totally done this before. Loads. Loads of this kind of stuff.” “Uh huh?” Even imaginary Poe doesn’t believe him.) 

Poe then spins Finn around to face him, looking at his face with eyes filled with yearning, before glancing down at Finn’s naked body with approval. Then Poe leans in to link their mouths together – Finn can taste him this time, salt and heat – and he pushes Finn down on this very bed, moving on top of him and sliding a leg between Finn's. Moaning, Finn arches into his pilot. Whereas being with Rey was like being taught how to swim with a floatation device, Poe’s approach simply seems to be to push him right off a cliff into an ocean and hope that he can keep up. Either way, Finn can’t breathe, other than to pant excitedly during the short times that their mouths separate. 

Poe is hard too, against Finn’s leg, and Finn can feel moisture that’s more than just sweat. Suddenly it occurs to him that Poe…Poe could be inside him. Finn knows that happens sometimes – he’s heard whispers in the past, has witnessed brothers-in-arms who’d gotten too close in the ranks put out of airlocks for it, and while Finn doesn’t know how people are punished here (or even _if_ they are), _kriff_ he would risk whatever it is for Poe. Or it could be the other way around and he could be inside Poe, (“You like it?” Poe asks with the cocky grin of someone who knows the answer already. “‘Cause I like it, Finn, just like that. You’re so great, you’re the best I’ve ever had.”). Or Finn could be in Poe’s _mouth_ even, Poe’s lips dripping wet and stretched around him, Poe happily slurping up and down obscenely, Poe looking up at him, beaming smugly, lips coated opaque white with Finn’s-

The loss of control is like being swept into hyperspace only to immediately drop out of it again. Finn arches into his own hand, coming apart, unable to stop the sob of relief that is barely muffled by the jacket. It hits him so strongly that his heels dig into the bed as the tingling pleasure works its way to the edges of his body.

‘Breathe, just breathe.’ That’s all he can think, really. His brain has imploded.

So he just lets himself sink into the bed, body heavy and trembling. Just for a moment, as he tries to come to his senses, he relaxes. Then rational thought comes crashing back to him and his eyes blast open. 

‘Oh no. Oh no, oh no.’ 

Finn spits the jacket out of his mouth and sits up. His sleeping clothes are most certainly ruined. Using his toes he tries to pull down the remaining sheets to avoid getting his messy hands on them too, but it doesn’t quite work. He can only hope nobody notices during the next laundry cycle. 

“No, no, no. Damn it,” he mutters under his breath, looking left and right for something to properly clean off with. Out of desperation, he ends up swiping one of Poe’s many dirty shirts from the floor, a tattered grey one. Surely it could be put to wash before anyone noticed or…Finn will just say he borrowed it, and knowing Poe that will be the end of that. Wiping his fingers, he rolls the shirt and hides it from view in-between the wall and his mattress, feeling ashamed.

Only then does he notice the change in breathing pattern across from him. Still slow and steady, but conspicuously less deep, with no real noise anymore. 

“Poe?” Finn whispers, terrified. Finn’s eyes have long adjusted to the low light and he doesn’t see any eyes peering back at him, which is a good thing. He also doesn’t get a response. So Finn relaxes again, and breathes a sigh of relief. 

Close one. He’ll have to be more careful.

Finally tired, so gloriously tired, Finn settles onto his back again, pulling the blanket back up to where it belongs. Looking at things in perspective, he decides that, all in all, this whole endeavour has turned out to be a pretty effective strategy for dealing with his sleeping problem, minor clean-up issues aside. Maybe _this_ is what everyone else in the Resistance does too. Maybe it's not a bad thing at all.

He grins. If so, _wow_. 

**

“What’s happened to you lately?” Jessika asks. “You look like you’ve got whole eclipses going on under your eyes.”

“Yeah, you look like bantha shit,” Temmin adds helpfully, thwacking him on the back. 

“Not much sleep, man,” Poe Dameron replies with the barest hint of a cheeky grin on his handsome face. “Bunkmates, you know? What can you do?” He shrugs as if it should be obvious.

“Finn? Damn, does he snore or something? Nien snores like an old V-19 with a faulty concussion launcher,” Jessika laments.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Poe chuckles. “But trust me, I’m not complaining.”


End file.
